“THE VERY PRINCE OF DAYS, and in the very king of counties!” Jane exclaimed, linking arms with her sister. “Oh, the joy of being back on Hampshire soil.”
They were staying at Manydown, which happened to be one of Jane’s few favorite places, with the Misses Bigg, who were both on the very short list of her favorite people. A combination of a little good fortune and considerable conniving had brought them here for three blessed weeks. They should be with James and Mary at Steventon, that was the arrangement, and had survived almost ten days under the rectory roof. But the effect on Jane—the livid grief of revisiting her childhood home; the irritations of being under the rule of its new mistress—had been such that Cassy had become quite concerned.
So Cassy had taken it upon herself to have a quiet word with Catherine and Alethea, and those excellent women had come to their rescue. This gracious house, with its spacious estate, had at once worked its magic. Jane was now almost restored. Together the four friends strode out over a field made crisp by the dry winter, and Cassy breathed deep with relief at the lift in Jane’s mood.
“Can you have any idea of your own privilege, girls? To have this limitless acreage at your disposal. To walk and to think in unqualified peace. One cannot quite appreciate the wondrousness of it, if you have never known anything other.”
“Oh, but we do, Jane. I assure you.” They had come to the ha-ha. There was a bridge farther up, but they had never used it in their youth, and they eschewed the use of it now. Alethea lifted her skirts and jumped the ditch. She landed with grace and, while waiting for the others, spoke on: “There is always that threat hanging over us, to aid the concentration of the mind and the counting of blessings.” She held out a hand to help Cassy. “We cannot forget that one day our brother will want to bring his own wife here, and she is unlikely to want all these sisters lurking about, getting older and crosser.”
“You are the least cross women I know! But then who can be cross when in Manydown? Even I seem to have forgotten the knack.” Jane, too, leaped across the ha-ha unaided. “And I am sure that were I the future Mrs. Harris Bigg-Wither, I should make room for as many sisters as were available and then take to the streets and petition for more.” With a firm, quick step, she led their way across the pasture, scattering sheep in her path. “Anyway, your brother is still a young man. He could be years yet off marriage, and while your father is alive you can count on this as your home. We have a new and deep understanding of that small word now, do we not, Cass?”
“Oh.” Cassy took her arm again—a gesture that hoped to ward off the demons. “Our life is not so bad, Jane. Bath certainly has its diversions.”
“Indeed!” Catherine joined in now. “You forget, Jane, how bored you had become with Hampshire society. The same old faces at the Basingstoke Assembly … We hardly bother with it these days. Without you two there to laugh with, the evenings seemed simply interminable. There you at least have fresh meat to pick at.”
“Ugh.” Jane tossed her disgust over her shoulder. “I should not dare, for fear it might poison me.” They crested the hill, and she stopped to soak up the vista unfolding before them. “Behold! A view for the ages. This is the stuff of life. Here is the place for proper contentment.”
“That is all you require?” Cassy asked, smiling. “A mere one-hundred-and-fifty-acre slice of your own rolling country?”
They all laughed at her.
“I am a simple enough soul, Cass.” Jane laughed with them. “Modest in my ambitions. Something like Manydown would do me quite well.”
DINNER THAT NIGHT WAS UNCOMMONLY cheerful. They were not a large party, which was lucky, for Jane could not always be relied upon to enjoy those. But they were a happy one: just the Austen and Bigg ladies, their father, Mr. Lovelace Bigg-Wither, and his only son.
Fortune had been most specific in the division of gifts to the Bigg-Wither family: The daughters had received intelligence, grace, and charm in abundance; the son had been blessed with a more grandiose surname and would one day receive the estate.
Mr. Harris Bigg-Wither was the youngest in the family and as a child had suffered the indignity of a terrible stammer. Now one-and-twenty, he was not quite the miserable specimen he had been when the Austens last saw him. He had grown tall, and the strange distortion of his mouth become less apparent. The improvement was noticeable, and the Misses Austen duly approved it. Whether his mind had developed also, whether his opinions had become interesting or his reasoning sound—these things could only be guessed at. For although Mr. Bigg-Wither had learned to talk well enough and was able to do so without causing undue embarrassment to himself or his listeners, he still talked as little as possible. His youthful affliction had left him shy in company, and the company that evening required no sort of contribution from him.
“Such a pity for the neighborhood that your family has left us,” Mr. Lovelace Bigg-Wither was saying. “Why your dear father should even think of retiring I shall never understand.”
Cassy caught Jane’s eye across the table, and they shared a small smile. How could a landed gentleman appreciate the pleasures of retirement, if he has never before known the discomforts of work?
“I believe it had all become too much for him,” Jane explained. “Not only the responsibilities of the church and his parishioners, but the running of the glebe too, I fear, took its toll.”
“Well, if you say so, dear girl, though I have often thought rector of a small, country parish to be the most enviable existence, without the onerous responsibilities of having too much of one’s own land.” He took a mouthful of beef and ruminated for a moment. “But still, why could not your parents have settled here in Hampshire? Bath—Bath of all places! It makes no sort of sense.”
“Ah, there we are in agreement, sir,” said Jane warmly. “I now know to my cost that cities in general have not much to recommend them. The noise and smoke and the press of other people! All very well for a visit or two, but no longer than that.”
“Quite so, madam.” Mr. Bigg-Wither pointed his fork at her to express his agreement, and peered with approval through a forest of eyebrow. “Many a time my dear, late lady wife would drag me to London, promising a dashed good time. I would hide in my club for a day or two and then scuttle back here as soon as I could.” He took a potato. “Never go near the place now. London, indeed. Makes a fellow quite ill.”
“My parents,” Cassy put in, “felt that the winter in Bath would make a pleasant change, and they are very much enjoying taking their summers at the seaside.”
“The seaside! The seaside?” The gentleman harrumphed. “Then it is as I feared. They have quite lost their senses. What business can anyone have with the seaside? That is the beauty of our neck of Hampshire. We cannot see it. Thank the good Lord, we cannot smell it. We can all but pretend that it is not even there.”
“Papa, the sea is much in fashion,” said Alethea. “They now say that it is of great benefit to one’s health.”
“Ha! It will kill you as soon as it looks at you.” He bellowed his warning: “Only a damned fool would trust it.” He sank into his chair and returned to his dinner.
“Sir, I must say that I have every sympathy with your position. Once one has known Manydown, then one need never travel again. If you have met perfection, why go in search of inadequacy?” Jane’s words, though all true, were carefully designed to restore her host’s humor. “I feel just as strongly about Steventon. While I am very grateful to my parents for showing me other, different places, all that I have learned on our travels is this: There is no county to rival Hampshire, in my own affections at least.”
The ladies left the table so that the gentlemen could enjoy their port in peace. They walked through the hall, where the white marble was softened by firelight and candles, and the stone staircase stretched like a dancer out and up in an elegant curve. Jane sighed and squeezed Cassy’s arm. “Is this not heaven?”
“It is all very lovely.” Cassy patted her, soothingly. “And you may have had a little too much wine.”
Jane giggled. “Then who can blame me? It is very good here, and no one can predict when we will next sample its like. I intend to stock up like a camel, so as to somehow survive the oncoming drought.”
Once in the drawing room, Cassy settled herself with the others on the sofa while Jane walked over to the pianoforte and lifted its lid.
“What a fine instrument.” Her fingers brushed the keys.
“And wasted on we sorry creatures,” said Alethea. “Will you play for us, Jane?”
She sat down. “I fear I am no longer the pianist I used to be. All this unsettlement means not so much practicing. You may find you regret having asked me.” But she started to play anyway, a Bach prelude of which Cassy was particularly fond. It took her mind back to their dressing room in Steventon, to their own safe, closeted little world.
Jane was still playing when Mr. Bigg-Wither Senior came in and approached her.
“Miss Jane. Do excuse me. I come bearing a message. If you would be so kind, my son is requesting you join him now in the library.”
Cassy stiffened, looked around, and caught Catherine and Alethea exchanging glances. She was seized with a sense of foreboding.
Clearly her sister was not. “The library? How charming.” Jane rose and giggled again. She really had drunk too much wine. “I am always delighted to go into a library.” And she swayed out of the room.
“What is this?” Cassy asked of her hosts, while remembering to appear calm. “What is this mystery?”
“We could not possibly say,” returned Catherine with the most knowing smile. “No doubt all will be revealed.”
They did not have to wait long. The young Mr. Harris Bigg-Wither soon entered the drawing room, with a flushed-looking Jane upon his arm.
“Father, Sisters, madam. It is with great pleasure that I announce”—he paused, either for theatrical effect or to control his stammer—“that Miss Austen has kindly consented to be my wife.”
The family swarmed about the couple in great celebration. Cassy was unable to move. This was madness! A toast was suggested, glasses were filled, health was proposed, and still she sat watching. Could not anybody else see that this was sheer madness? Everything about it was wrong! Oh, as proposals go, it looked the part, certainly. The evening, the drawing room, the candlelight, the couple—dazed and yet beaming. Yes, the stage was set exactly as it should be.
All as it should be. And yet, in Cassy’s eyes, nothing as it ought.
IT WAS SOMETIME LATER that they were able to shut the door on their bedroom and talk openly.
“Jane! My dear, what on earth have you done?”
“Well, there is a response. Are you not to congratulate me on the splendor of my match?”
“Yes. Of course. I shall speak of my joy and express all the right sentiments and kiss you and bless you. Once you have assured me that you are in love with Mr. Bigg-Wither.” Cassy’s voice rose. “And that you admire him above and beyond all other gentlemen. That he is your one chosen companion for the rest of your life.”
“I cannot do that, of course.” Jane sat on the bed, a hard smile fixed on her face. “Nor could he with me, I dare say. Indeed, I am not entirely convinced he likes me particularly. But when manna does happen to fall down from the heavens—which it has singularly failed to do upon me before this very evening—then it would be foolish to squander it.”
“Of course he must like you. Why else do you suppose he would—”
“Oh, Cass. A dull boy growing up with such intelligent sisters can hardly be expected to own his own mind. I suppose I just happened to be on hand, he thought the arrangement might bring pleasure to the family, and that I may do as well as any civilized woman of their acquaintance.”
“Then what are you doing?” Cassy knelt down at her feet. “This goes against all that you feel and believe in. It makes a mockery of everything you have ever said on the subject of marriage and love—love, in particular.”
“And what did I know? What did I know about love or any other matter?” Jane cried out. “In truth, I now look back on my erstwhile confidence and shudder at it. Before we left Steventon, I had no understanding of the world and its malice. The things I once wrote!” She put her face in her hands. “What a silly, silly, naive little child.” She thought for a moment. “This after all, need not be such a stretch of my so-called principles. I have always maintained the impossibility of love without money, but there must still be the hope that, with money, love can perhaps grow, over time.”
“And you truly believe that could happen here, that you could one day love Mr. Bigg-Wither?”
Jane sighed. “I cannot, of course, predict any such thing. I admit it unlikely. But this much I can say, and I have said it before”—she grabbed Cassy’s hands—“We cannot go on in this fashion. One of us has to do something that might release us from this pitiful state. What should I care the sort of man he is in thought or in habits? It may hardly matter. He is from a good family. He cannot be all bad. And think of it, Cass: His sisters can stay here. We will all be safe! And together!” She looked at Cassy then and stroked her face. “And you, my best girl, are now free. Free to marry your Mr. Hobday.”
“Jane!” Was this what was behind it? She pulled away and stood up. Was Jane truly willing to enter into a disastrous match so that she could enjoy what might be a better one? Cassy could never know freedom in a strange place like Derbyshire, while her own sister was miserable and miles away …
She sat down again. This was Jane’s first proposal, the closest she had ever been to marriage, and she was too excitable, right at that moment, to look at it seriously. Cassy had been there twice now, and had the presence of mind, the time, the experience to peer in and see enough to know fear at all it entailed. The image of Tom’s dirty shaving rag swam up before her … Of course, there was a chance that it might work out well with Mr. Bigg-Wither … but all evidence pointed against it. If Jane was sure and determined, then Cassy would not prevent her. But to be the cause of the marriage, to know herself to be its true justification? That was unthinkable. Cassy could be no part of this story.
“I can tell you now that whatever you do will not make me marry Hobday. I have refused him. It is over. I never think of him, even.”
That was untrue. Of course she thought of him. Often. Through his letters he had become less the unknowable stranger, and something approaching a friend. But, if needs be, for the sake of her sister, she would resolve never to think of him again.
“And how could I leave our parents now?” Cassy went on. “Papa is old and ailing. Mama cannot be left by herself. There is my duty—”
This, at least, was the truth. If Jane was indeed gone, then Cassy could not possibly think of leaving.
“Oh, Cass. You and your infernal sense of duty! I beg you, lay it aside and think of yourself for once.”
“But I could not be myself if I did that! Without it, I should be nothing—or some other woman whom I could never respect.”
Jane flung herself back on the mattress and started to cry.
Cassy opened her arms and cradled her sister. “If you can be happy here, then I shall be happy, just in that knowledge.”
They lay together, each in her own thoughts. In time Jane asked, in a voice so quiet that Cassy at first did not hear it: “And will I be happy here, do you think?”
“Well.” Cassy sat up to consider the question. This was a strength she had over her sister: to analyze, assess; bring a rational head to the complexities of a problem. “You love Manydown, and place is of particular importance to you, to your sense of well-being. But then you would be its mistress, with all the little issues of the day-to-day that are entailed. That may not suit you!” She smiled. “Though Catherine and Alethea would, no doubt, help shoulder the burden.”
“As you do for me?”
“Possibly not quite as much as that, my dear. The control, all the decisions of the household, must fall upon you, or you should be failing in your wifely duties.”
Jane was pale.
“And then, of course, there will be children. I presume Mr. Bigg-Wither would hope for a lot of them. Men are prone to when there is an estate to consider, and so many bedrooms to fill.” She offered up a prayer that her sister would somehow prove strong enough to survive it.
“I shall be in pig for the rest of my years!” Jane wailed.
“Yes, but you love children,” Cassy countered. “You have a gift with them.”
“With other people’s.”
“You will love your own even more.”
Jane sat up; she leaned her head on Cassy’s shoulder. “What else? What other factors should I consider?”
Cassy was reluctant to continue. The conversation was heading for trickier waters; it would be wise to drop anchor now. “It is a bit late for any further consideration beyond that, my love. May I remind you that you have already accepted? The family knows. The deal is struck.”
But Jane’s mind went on alone. “I will have no time to myself, for thinking. For writing. I shall not write more than a letter again.”
“We do not know that,” Cassy insisted, though she feared it was true.
“I shall have a husband. A master.”
“Come now! You talk as if you are entering service, not marriage. Mr. Bigg-Wither is hardly a cruel man and not overbearing.”
“Underbearing, if he is anything.”
“Time for bed,” Cassy said briskly. “It has been a most eventful evening. I think we could both do with some sleep.”
AN HOUR BEFORE DAWN Jane shook Cassy awake. “I cannot do it. I have thought all night and, Cass, I cannot do it.”
Cassy sat up with a bolt. “But you have done it, Jane. It is already done!”
“No.” Jane was white and close to hysterical. “It was all a mistake. The most hideous error. I do not know what I was thinking. I shall tell him this morning.”
“Oh, my dear.” Cassy fell back onto the pillow. “Oh, but this is a calamity. The girls. The father. Mr. Bigg-Wither himself, the poor boy! Are you quite certain? You cannot go through with it?”
“Certain.” She rose and marched to the wardrobe. “We will leave here this morning.”
“And go where? Back to that life you so hate, that you cannot abide? Remember now your reasons for accepting.”
Jane was removing her nightcap and pulling at her hair. “They are not enough. This is not the answer. I shall stay with you. Together we will survive it, somehow.” She turned then and smiled at her sister. “To quote a philosopher of my acquaintance: I shall not starve.”
They dressed, sought out Alethea, and prostrated themselves before her. In that moment the latter proved her worth, as a very good woman and an even better friend. Mr. Harris Bigg-Wither was fetched and he and Jane left alone for their interview. Cassy did not inquire of the details; she did not want to know.
Then, at once, the carriage was called and the Austen ladies returned to Steventon. The rectory was stunned by their sudden appearance and the distress of their countenance. Mary, in particular, was all agog.
“What is this new drama? Austen! What have they done now?”
To her fury, the sisters said only that they must leave for Bath and begged James to escort them.
“On a Saturday?” he exclaimed. “But of course I cannot. I am impossibly busy.”
But such was their upset, Mary stepped forward and suggested he manage it. And then he could only agree.
Once back with their parents, in the comparative tranquillity of their lodgings, Cassy sat down to address a last letter to Mr. Hobday. After careful consideration and in spite of her previous words on the matter, she must insist that they cease all correspondence. She had been grateful for his attentions and, if his disappointment was heavy, then she was sorry.
Neither could pretend that she was his one chance of happiness. She wished him well for the future, extended her warmest regards to his mother. This was her final decision. She would not write again.